FORGIVENESS

 FORGIVENESS? That’s an unusual topic. I didn’t expect to be thinking about that!

An old log, battered by the waves, comes to rest upon the shore, and somehow sprouts new growth.

 

Forgiveness, however, is a huge step on my journey to . . . what exactly? Recovery? Health? Accepting this altered life. So okay then. Here goes.

I forgive the Universe. Whoa – pretty grandiose, there, Jane! But I do. I forgive the flaw in its design that means battling for life isn’t always straightforward. We must be on guard against these sneaky little mutant cells. I suppose I must forgive those mutations too, because humans wouldn’t even be here if cells didn’t change over time.

I forgive my ancestors. Actually I don’t need to forgive them because it turns out I didn’t inherit my mutants. Even if I had the notorious BRCA gene, I still forgive whoever gave it to me. They also gave me the parts of myself I like.

I forgive the poisoners. I don’t want to, but I do. The ones who didn’t care about the environment in which we live. The ones who didn’t know the consequences of pollution. The ones who did know but preferred to ignore it. The ones who are still spewing poison.

I forgive the people who helped me and the people who are still helping me and the people who sincerely believe they are helping me. There are limits to what anyone can do.

I’m trying to forgive myself. This is the hardest of all. I can forgive my sins against healthy living. Others indulged in riskier behavior and aren’t battling cancer. It’s harder to forgive myself for squandering this gift of life. Why haven’t I done more? Why didn’t I make more of a contribution? Even having a few hobbies would be money in the sense-of-self bank. Sadly I had let my account dwindle.

But hey, who knows, this may in fact be the perfect time to reinvent myself!

As Machiavelli said, “Never waste the opportunity offered by a good crisis.”

Rahm Emanuel interpreted that to mean, “Take this opportunity to do things that you think you could not do before.”

So I will! Because I can! So far, the health report is pretty good. My body is coping with the drug. Blood counts are normal. My physical therapist and my oncologist are happy. So am I—sometimes.

And on the days when I’m not, I forgive myself for that too.

OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

On the last day of 2023, I made a resolution. I would step out of my comfort zone! 

On the first day of 2024, I plunged into the cold waters of Lake Michigan.

In February, I shared the musical my team is writing with way more talented and experienced writers.

In March, I traveled to Colombia--8,500 feet higher than where I live.

And in May, I learned that my cancer has come back. 

Yes. In 2001, I had a mastectomy, six months of chemotherapy, one month of radiation, and started ten years of hormonal therapy. Because of all that, I had 23 great years. I published over 30 fiction and non-fiction books. I traveled to many countries with my husband. I saw our daughter channel her creative skills into the practice of law. In other words, I lived. And I intend to keep living.

I just took three pills. They're so powerful that I was cautioned to wear gloves when handling them. And yet they seem pretty small considering the job they must do.

I must fight an equally important battle. I have many memories of 2001--some of which I'll share in future blogs. But one is very clear to me now. Just after the drama of the surgery, when people had moved on to their own problems, I was left alone with my darker thoughts. I lay in bed feeling sorry that my life could be cut short. I was jolted by this realization. If indeed that were true, then why would I waste one single precious second of the time I have here on Earth in a cloud of misery? Why wouldn't I do whatever I could to make the most of what I have while I have it? None of us will live forever. 

Now it's June. I will continue to leave my comfort zone. I will not abandon comforts! I need sunny days, walks in the woods, bird song, and time with friends more than ever. I must strive, however, to avoid sinking into the lazy-boy-recliner of self-pity, resentment, and railing against the mutants who live in my body now. 

I have decided to use this blog as a place to explore my thoughts about illness, identity, but most of all my quest for life.

Writing it will help me. Thank you for reading. 

 

I LOVE MY PEN

What does it mean to write? I’m not talking about the implications of crafting stories to inspire or inform or amuse. I mean to make words show up on what was originally a blank space. In order to WRITE, an idea somewhere in my brain acquires language. Then a different part of my brain sends a signal along my nerves to my fingers. They tap the keys of this laptop. And then – by an even more mysterious process – those keys signal the word-processing program and letters appear on the screen. These words seem professional. They are tidy. They are uniformly shaped. My bad spelling has been magically corrected. My lines are straight. I appreciate all this help in making my ideas look good, no matter how incomplete. 

Writing is different when I use my cartridge pen. The line from my brain down my arm to the ink feels continuous – almost as if my blood were being spilled on the paper. All my first drafts are written in that way. So are my notes on my projects, my comments, my  maps of fictional places, and my emotings.

This method has drawbacks. Penmanship is a problem. There are times when I cannot read my writing. I'm not exaggerating. I cannot. So I think of something better.

The pen will run out of ink at the worst of all possible moments. Sometimes when my brain is struggling with a thought, I watch the words grow fainter and fainter – a literal manifestation of what’s happening in my brain. I insert a new cartridge. I return to the page – the sentence broken – and I can’t remember what I was trying to write. So I think of something better.

Or the smears – the blots, the blobs, the times when I pressed too hard on the poor nib and something illegible gushed onto the page. Or when I have neglected my pen. Been busy. Been typing not writing. If I pick it up after a long absence, nothing flows. Dried up inside. So I take it apart. I flush it with water. I put in a new cartridge. I start to write. At first, the words are pale. Watery. Eventually the ink is flowing as it should. Because I have thought of something better.

I love my pen. It forces me to think. To take my time. It enables my words to be more than a string of discrete letters. I would never for a moment think of writing with anything else. Except maybe this?

Miraculous Writing Machine made by Friedrich von Knaus 1760

 

FAREWELL TO THE MEWS

The connection between writers and cats is almost a cliche. I wouldn't be surprised if MFA programs offer courses about sharing your desk with a cat. There is a reason for this. I had been putting words on paper for years, but I didn't become a real writer until after we brought Blackberry into our home. I will always be grateful for what she taught me.

BE CURIOUS



Cats are  interested in everything––except what is shown on a screen. And they never look in the mirror. Blackberry and I spent a lot of time watching the pigeons across the street.

KNOW WHAT'S IMPORTANT



Blackberry had an uncanny sense of which particular piece of paper was the one I needed the most. Here she is taking a bath on it, as if to say, "Clean this part up."

CONCENTRATE



Her stare was so powerful that it was unsettling.

BE HUNGRY



Her appetite was tremendous. Once she got a whiff of something she wanted, she pursued it relentlessly. She obeyed no rules. No shelf was too high. She even opened cupboard doors to get food we tried to hide from her. She took what she wanted, even if it was a sip from my husband's cocktail.

BE FEARLESS



Yes, she is sitting on the peak of a pitched roof.

BE WILD

 

Blackberry never ever forgot that she was a hunter. Even toward the end of her life, whenever dusk lengthened the shadows in the woods, and other animals crept from their hiding places, she wanted to leave my lap and run off to be part of that other world.

Blackberry was my inspiration and my companion for many years. We will be telling stories about her life for many more years to come.

Getting excellent advice from some readers

I'm fortunate to be a writer. I never take it for granted. I enjoy every bit of the process. I've worked hard, but I also know that I owe a lot to sheer luck.

I would never even have written my first novel. But I attended a reunion for a theater company where I had been an apprentice. I happened to sit near a children's book agent, Linda Pratt, who happened to  mention that she was always looking for humorous adventure stories. So I wrote one, and she sold it to Random House.

A few years after that, I had a second bit of amazing luck. I joined the Brooklyn Community Chorus. One night at rehearsal, I sat next to Susan Westover. When she found out I wrote kids books, she invited me to Brooklyn New School and Brooklyn School for Collaborative Studies, where she is the librarian.

That was eight years ago. Since then I have visited BNS and BCS many times to talk about my books and writing. I've gotten to know the schools' other wonderful librarians, Karen Klein and Amanda Clarke. (Yes, the schools are so committed to reading that they share three librarians!) They're always grateful for my school visits. But I get back far more than I give. Each visit restores me. It's so inspiring to be in schools where teachers care about kids. Kids care about kids. And everybody cares about books.

My current novel is still very much a work-in-progress. But that's when a writer most needs to get a dose of tough love. I asked Susan if she might have some readers who were willing to give me feedback. Susan and Amanda kindly gathered a group of fifth graders and a group of sixth graders. They read the first twenty pages of CITY KID.

The Fifth grade group gives me advice.

One student drew my main character and a logo.

Their comments and their ideas were so helpful to me!

The sixth grade group meets regularly in the library to share their own creative procects.

Of course their enthusiasm for the character made me happy. But I was even happier to get their questions. What kind of person is Peri? How does she feel about her step-dad? Why did she say "no hugging"? Can't she just take a taxi to the theater? What are "cut-offs"?

Lots of helpful comments IN RED

"Does she get to the theater? How? We'll help you write the next page!"

Yes, my friends at BNS and BCS. You certainly will.

My Mother Made Me -- Remembering Virginia Carson Kelley (1924 - 2018)

My mother made me a novelist. It wasn't her intention. We had the worst of our disagreements when I insisted on pursuing a life in the theater. She was right. I wasn't cut out to be an actress. But I did, as I once told her in overly dramatic fashion, HAVE to write. And that's because of her.

Language was Mom's life. Our house was full of books. She loved reading to herself and to us. Usually the books were from her own childhood--well-worn volumes which her own mother had probably read to her. Some were classics like Winnie the Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, and Little Women. Others were more obscure, such as Jane's Father, who, like my own dad, had unconventional but endearing ways.

Mom was also a master of conversation. She could talk with anybody, particularly a shy person whom nobody else seemed to notice. She understood people sometimes painfully all too well. She paid attention to details that we kept hidden even from ourselves. She usually pointed those out to us in humorous fashion. Her "zingers" were famous in our family. She was hardest on herself, however. She loved retelling the story about the time a guest discovered the dead chipmunk our cat left under a chair. Mom just laughed and said she should have done a better job of dusting.

But her letters were her real gifts to us. She seemed to type them effortlessly, batting them out, as she said. Droll descriptions of what she had been doing, the tennis games, the strawberries picked and made into jam, the lunches with friends whom my father referred to her as her clients because they always needed to talk to her. Mostly the letters contained questions and compliments about the details of our lives. They are treasures. I wish I had saved every single one.

At the time when I was becoming a writer, I discovered a short story she had written when she was in college. I can't remember how I found it in a box in the attic. Mom's family had many writers. Her own mother was a well-respected novelist whom some compared to Jane Austen. Her aunt was a biographer and a newspaper reporter for the Chicago Tribune. Her great aunt was a newspaper columnist for the Milwaukee Journal. And so I wasn't surprised by the quality of Mom's short story. I was surprised that she hadn't written more.

Who knows why some march forward while others stand to the side. When I asked her why she hadn't kept on, she said that she was too lazy. But I suspect her own parents hadn't been as encouraging as mine.

Mom was very proud of my books. I always read her early drafts of whatever I was working on. She was generous with her laughter and praise, and always had a few astute suggestions. I am forever in her debt.

Virginia Carson Kelley does leave a legacy. Her beloved children and grandchildren all have some of her wisdom, her wit, her love of family, and her appreciation for words.

WRITE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD

A writer friend read a draft of one of my novels. She gave me lots of great feedback. In particular, she pointed to a scene in which the kids visit their friend and are greeted by a stay-at-home mom.

"I know you're writing the world we usually see," my friend said. "But why use stereotypical roles? Why not show a more diverse world? Then it can become the norm."

"Absolutely," I agreed. I felt chastened to be caught in conventional thinking.

So I changed the scene. I had the stay-at-home parent be a dad. I gave the mom an important, high salary job as a lawyer who is fighting for justice.

There was an unintended consequence. The mom never appeared in the book. She was at her law office. The dad got to be in a funny scene baking spinach brownies. This caused a whole new imbalance. What had I done?!?!

Obviously I could have conceived of a story in which the lawyer mom had a crucial role. But my intention had been to write about saving our planet! (Unfortunately, that was too big a job for a kid, so I changed the idea to saving the butterflies.) Did I have to worry about male-female role models too? Isn't this just a kids' book?

No, it isn't. Words have power. We feel validated when we connect with a character or situation we recognize. When we encounter the unfamiliar, we are enlarged.

Writing is a series of choices. The character does this or that, looks like this or that, and says this or that. The multitude of small decisions coalesce to make the book.

Which brings me to the question I'd been pondering even before my friend's suggestion. The world is beset by problems. So many injustices, so many crises, including those poor monarch butterflies. I'm just a writer. What can I do?

Pay attention. Be aware of the problems. Learn about them. Use facts whenever possible. That will lead to better writing.

Upend preconceived notions. Shun the stale and the trite. That's better writing.

Strive for balance. Not just among types of characters, but within them. Treat every character with respect. That's better writing.

Be honest. Kids see through our best attempts to guide them. They know damn well there's spinach in that brownie. Don't gloss over situations. Characters should change and grow. That's better writing.

One of the reasons I love what I do is that I can make a happy ending. I can't cure cancer or end poverty. But I can make bold heroes who happen to be girls. I can make friendships exist where they usually don't. I can make sensitive dads and brothers. I can make wise women give just the right amount of encouragement and advice.

I can write the change I want to see in the world.